semi-coordinated strategy earlier agreed between the pair of them,
Lewis's last allotted task had been some further enquiries into the balances
and business activities of Mr Frank Harrison. Somewhat trickier than
anticipated though. Yet far more exciting, as Lewis discovered after
depositing (as agreed) the Sainsbury's bag, with contents, in Morse's office
late that same afternoon, and ringing the London offices of the Swiss
Helvetia Bank.
Reaching the senior manager surprisingly speedily.
Being informed that he, Lewis, ought really to get to London immediately
and urgently.
Deciding to go.
Using the siren (one of Lewis's greatest joys) if he found himself stuck, as
he knew he would be, amidst the capital's inevitable grid locks
Morse took the red trainers from the bag and placed them on Simon Harrison's
desk.
'These yours?'
'Pardon? What shorts?'
The interview wasn't going to be easy, Morse conceded that. Yet already the
suspicion had crossed his mind that any deaf man, and especially a canny deaf
man, might occasionally pretend to mis-hear in order to give himself a little
more time to consider an awkward question.
'Your car, Mr Harrison? Toyota, P- Reg?'
'It ought to be what, Inspector?'
'Llandudno? Mean anything to you?'
'Did you know, you say? Didn't know?'
'The time for playing games is over, lad,' said Morse quietly. 'Let's start
at the beginning again, shall we?' He pointed to the trainers.
'These yours?'
The truth, or what Morse took to be half of the truth, was fairly soon out.
The teenaged Simon had known Ban-on well enough because the builder had done
a few things around the house, including a big structural job on the back
patio. Frequently he'd found Barren in the kitchen having a mug of coffee
with his mother, and he'd sensed that Barren fancied her. Jealous? Yes,
he'd been jealous. Angry, too, because his mother had once confided in him
that she found Barren a bit of a creep.
Then, so very recently, there'd been this upsurge of interest
in his mother's murder, bringing with it a corresponding upsurge in his
hatred of Barren.
Yes, he'd bought the trainers 70! No, he'd not driven out to Stokenchurch
that Monday morning. He'd driven out to Burford instead, where he knew that
Barron was working.
Here Morse had interrupted.
'How did you know that?'
'Pardon?'
Was it a genuine plea? Morse was most doubtful, but he repeated the question
with what he trusted was legible enunciation, conscious as he had been
throughout of Simon's eyes upon his lips.
'He told me himself. You see, I wanted the outside of my flat, er . .
you know, the windows, doors . . . they were all getting a bit . .
Anyway, I asked him if he could do it and he said he'd come round and give me
an estimate after he'd finished his next job. And I don't know why but he
just happened to mention where it was, that's all. '
Morse nodded dubiously. Even if it wasn't the truth, it wasn't a bad answer.
And Simon Harrison continued his unofficial statement: He'd just felt well,
murderous. Simple as that. He'd always suspected that Barron was involved
somehow in his mother's murder, and he was conscious of an ever-increasing
hatred for the man. So he'd decided to go and see if Barron was there, in
Sheep Street, balanced precariously (as he hoped) on the top of an extended
ladder, painting the guttering or some- thing. And he was.
Morse made a second interruption: 'So why didn't you . . .?'
Simon understood the inchoate query immediately, and for Morse his answer had
the ring of truth about it: 'I wanted to make sure he could be pushed off.
I'd noticed when he was doing Mum's roof that he used to anchor the top of
his ladder to the troughing or chimney stack or something. And he'd done the
same there, in Sheep Street I could see
it easily. So even if I'd had the
guts to to it, the ladder wouldn't have fallen. He might have done, agreed,
but. . . Anyway, I was a nervous wreck when I got back home; and when I
